


Nineteenth

by isitandwonder



Series: Sherlock Advent Calendar [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Jealous John, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5460863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No way John would let Sherlock fall prey to some pervy serial killer lurching in an semi-legal East End club in a warehouse at Upper Clapton Road, looking like … well, honestly, disinherited offspring of impoverished gentility turned stylish rent boy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nineteenth

John initially hates the club. It's packed; the music – Ambient! - way too loud and the stylish all male crowd languidly moving with it totally not his cup of tea either. 

But Sherlock had said it was for a case, so he'd followed.

Especially when he'd seen how Sherlock had dressed for the occasion: slightly worn Doc Martens 8 eye boots, skinny black jeans sitting low on his bony hips and a tight black t-shirt that nevertheless hung loosely from his narrow shoulders while the seam ended a good two inches above the waistband of his Levi's, exposing milky white skin dusted with a trail of fine dark hair trailing downwards to... _god, stop it._

No way John would let Sherlock fall prey to some pervy serial killer lurching in an semi-legal East End club in a warehouse on Upper Clapton Road, looking like … well, honestly, disinherited offspring of impoverished gentility turned stylish rent boy!

“What kind of place are we going to?” John had enquired, reviewing the very limited options his own wardrobe was offering in terms of fashionably hot attire.

“Don't bother, you'll be fine.”

“Everybody will think I'm your frumpy older...” _boyfriend? No!_ “mate,” was the term John settled for at last.

“Well, so everybody will be right.” 

“Fuck off, Sherlock.”

\-------------------------------------

They make their way over to the bar and Sherlock chats up the bartender while ordering a vodka tonic for himself and a beer for John. With the change comes a phone number. Sherlock smiles his sweet fake smile and when he hands John his drink he bows his head slightly towards John's ear, his lips nearly brushing its shell but he has to shout anyway to be inteligible over the music: “Our man's in tonight.”

“Was that his number?” John asks and doesn't care if he sounds jealous.

“What? No, of course not.”

“So, who's was it, then?”

Sherlock eyes him curiously.

“Why? Does it matter?”

John just shakes his head and looks away, observing the dance floor, decidedly ignoring Sherlock.

Suddenly, his whole body stiffens as he feels a hand sneaking casually round his shoulder. John _very_ decidedly ignores this, as it's surely just some way of cover for them passing off as a couple (not that they actually are, god behold, but when half of London thinks they are shagging one could even put it to good use).

After a few moments John relaxes a bit and rests the back of his head against Sherlock's shoulder. He asks, turning around just a fraction, staring at the crook of Sherlock's long pale neck: “What are we looking for?”

“Desmanovic is short and bald, only sporting a ginger fringe.” Sherlock has to raise his voice but most of what he says is drowned out by the pounding beats.

John takes another swig of beer, his temple against Sherlock's clavicle, who seems not to mind. On the contrary; his thumb starts to rub circles into John's shoulder but John is not entirely sure that Sherlock is even aware of what he's doing.

The air is warm and humid in the low, dimly lit basement and John can feel Sherlock starting to sweat where their bodies touch. A sheen of perspiration shows on his face, throat and bare arms and John stands so close he can actually smell him – something sharp and chemical with undoubtedly male musk underneath. 

The warmth, the scent, the darkness, the noise and - last but not least – their strange proximity makes John a bit dizzy. He closes his eyes and allows his thoughts to linger in - under normal circumstances - forbidden territory.

If he'd turn around just a bit more and lean in, he could lick a stripe up Sherlock's throat, actually tasting him. John's not sure what Sherlock would make of such a caress – to him it might simply account for scientific interest – or if he would notice at all.

John definitely needs another drink.

“My round. What you're having?” He entangles himself a bit from Sherlock, who just shakes his head and raises his still half full glass to indicate that he's good. John steps up to the bar and orders a jagerbomb. He quickly drowns half of it before turning back again – but Sherlock's gone.

“Fuck!” John mutters under his breath as his eyes roam the moving and shoving crowd without spotting his friend.

He starts to make his way over to the dance floor, pushing through clusters of teetering party people but the place is vast and mostly dark, lit only by flashing strobe lights and even if Sherlock is taller than the average British male, he's not of exceptional height and thus not easily recognisable, especially when he's trailing a multiple murderer and therefore not very keen on drawing attention to himself.

_'You stupid, stupid idiot, do you always have to rush headlong into harm alone? What's the point in dragging me along if you run off on your own the moment I turn around. Where the fuck are you?'_

John's not even sure if Sherlock is still at the club. 

Eventually, he reaches the base of a concrete stair leading up to a kind of balcony. For better view, John climbs up, discovering some mattresses and cushions on the floor as he reaches the gallery, with men lounging on them in the shadows, some definitely blasted, some explicitly entwined, rubbing against each other. John ignores all of this and leans over the railing, looking down on the raving mass of sweaty bodies in search for Sherlock until he finally thinks he might have glimpsed him at the far side of the basement – it's at least a tall dark haired bloke dressed in black talking to a shorter one with a glistening bald head.

But, of course, as John eventually reaches the spot they'd been standing in mere minutes ago both are men gone. There's an unlit corridor meandering deeper inside the derelict building and the distinct smell tells John it's housing makeshift toilets. He carefully walks down the passage, one hand sliding along the walls, until he notices some light streaming from an ajar metal door.

John slowly pushes it open. Behind it stretches a large high-ceilinged hall lit by industrial lanterns and candles. There are low tables made of plywood around which laze groups of people. John can smell the distinct sweet and heavy scent of dope that reminds him of the Afghan desert, of hot days, cold nights and the sound of the distant music is a substitute for the ubiquitous gunfire he still has to endure in his nightmares. John suddenly feels at the brink of a panic attack and has to lean against the hard dirty wall to calm himself down by telling himself over and over that he's at a club in London, England, and not in a military base at Kandahar.

Luckily, men behaving oddly do not attract attention in his present surroundings. As John looks around he notices spliffs being handed around. Some men – no, honestly, rather boys – are totally off their faces, lying in deckchairs, having consumed something obviously stronger than pot. In a corner John witnesses two men sharing the smoke from a small bubbling glass bulb by way of breathing into each others mouths. It reminds John vaguely of an exceptionally lewd resuscitation and the Doctor in him wants to shake the two pillocks and shout at them that freebasing crack cocaine is really, really not advisable but that would probably blow his cover.

And then, suddenly, John is doing it just the same, because one of the crackheads is his bat shit crazy lobotomised fuckwit of a flatmate (i.e. Sherlock bloody Holmes), not only sharing a smoke but also bodily fluids with a serial killer.

Keeping that in mind, John reminds himself - in an uncharacteristic moment of lucidity he'll be proud of later - to punch Desmanovic full in the face first, knocking him ass over tits, before violently joggling Sherlock, pulling the astonished detective up on his feet, then dragging him against the nearest wall, positively yelling at him: “Have you now gone completely mad, you scrawny twat? Do you really think you can just fuck off, pulling an atrocious serial killer and, instead of handing him over to the authorities, smoke some crack with him as a means of solving the case? Even you can't be that daft!” Some heads turn in their directions.

“John...” Sherlock sounds at the same time startled and amazed at John's fierce surge of livid protectiveness.

“Shut up, Sherlock, don't say another word, or I swear I'll knock you out like this cum guzzling pile of shit currently in search of the remnants of his teeth over there. Now, call Lestrade, then lets go home.”

And to John's utter surprise, Sherlock for once does as he's told.

\-------------------------------------------------

They arrive back home in the early hours. Lestrade had initially wanted them to stay but as he'd sensed the dark clouds of pure anger emanating from John while listening to Sherlock's more then usually obscure explanations, he'd send them home in a panda car after they'd promised to give proper statements at NSY the next day.

John bangs the door shut, for once not caring about the neighbours, then gives the coffee table a good hard kicking, sending the mugs and papers assembled on it flying as they shatter onto the floor.

Sherlock has been quiet for the whole ride and even now just watches John awkwardly, still not saying a single word.

“You utter dickhead! I can't believe …!” John is so incredibly furious he's at a loss for words.

“You are angry.” Sherlock states in a flat voice.

“Nice deduction, Sherlock.” John scolds before picking up the Union Jack pillow and hauling it back into its place on the sofa in a frustrated gesture.

“Because I ran off alone, leaving you behind? I had to. I just spotted Desmanovic while you were...”

“No!” John cuts him off sharply.

“No?” Sherlock is at a loss.

“You really don't get it, do you? Brain the size of a planet but a social conscience like a defiant four year old. That turd supplied you with hard drugs, then was literally all over you, just short of pushing his slimy tongue down your throat – and you let him!”

“You make Desmanovic sound rather like Jabba the Hutt...” Sherlock tries to lighten the mood with a reference to one of John's favourite films he had been made to watch in repentance for destroying various household appliances and is therefore quite familiar with.

“Don't fuck with me, Sherlock Holmes!”

“God, John, it was for a case!” Now Sherlock has reached the stage of annoyed shouting as well.

“And that justifies everything.” It isn't a question.

“Of course.” Sherlock gestures up and down his lithe body. “Just transport, remember?”

“Maybe to you.” John growls, while advancing with firm strides until he's reigned Sherlock in against the wall, glaring up at his subdued flatmate. “But not to me.”

With that, he tips his head back, leans in and presses his mouth insistently on Sherlock's. John's last coherent thought for a long time afterwards is _'This is all I have to offer, so please, take it, it's yours.'_

And because Sherlock Holmes isn't just a really clever man but sometimes even a good one, he understands – and approves.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, if you want something specific, feel free to prompt me - I'll oblige if possible.


End file.
